


Plausible Deniability

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Developing Relationship, Hand Jobs, Inline with canon, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-26
Updated: 2015-04-26
Packaged: 2018-03-20 14:40:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3654159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Gokudera is moving past two stands, barely pausing to even see what they are offering, when there’s a laughed “Gokudera!” from the space between them, and his feet are stalling with recognition before his conscious brain has placed the voice." Gokudera and Yamamoto have an interlude at the summer festival and barely sustain their excuses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Plausible Deniability

Gokudera wishes, now, that he had paid more attention to the festival layout.

He walked through the pathway once already, while the other stands were in the process of setting up. That should have been enough for him to notice where the other food stands were, where the games for the festival were arranged. But he had been distracted, Yamamoto walking too close to him so their shoulders bumped together on opposite steps, and all he can remember when he thinks back now is the sound of Yamamoto’s laugh in the warm summer air and the sweat-sticky catch of bare skin against his when they touched. It was an excellent distraction at the time, but now it leaves him with a bare handful of minutes to find the other boy and absolutely no idea where he’s gone. The walkway still looks crowded, to Gokudera’s eyes, the press of people enough that he can’t be certain he’d recognize even the familiarity of Yamamoto’s shape in the mass, and he’s moving faster as he goes, desperation winning out over the rational voice that says he’s going too quickly to really see anyone anyway.

He doesn’t need to recognize anyone, as it turns out. He’s moving past two stands, barely pausing to even see what they are offering, when there’s a laughed “Gokudera!” from the space between them, and his feet are stalling with recognition before his conscious brain has placed the voice. He looks, faster than would be subtle, whip-quick with relief, and Yamamoto is grinning at him, reaching out to close his fingers on the loose sleeve of the other’s shirt and pull him into the shadows.

Gokudera should protest, should at the very least jerk his sleeve away before following Yamamoto at his own pace. He doesn’t. He’s lurching forward instead, nearly stumbling in his haste to fall back into the possibilities of the darkened space, and Yamamoto is warm against him for the moment before they both collect themselves enough to move farther back from the walkway before they are seen.

“I was hoping you’d follow,” Yamamoto is saying, his words tripping and tangling with Gokudera’s “I thought you wanted to play the festival games.” They’re both speaking in hushed tones, the words hissing with intensity on Gokudera’s tongue as their feet send them backwards, into the tight press of the space between the stands. It’s dark here, dark enough that Gokudera can barely see the color in Yamamoto’s eyes for the shadows, and he doesn’t need to speak before Yamamoto’s hands are tangling into his hair and Yamamoto’s mouth is dipping to press hard against his. Gokudera shudders at the contact, the warm wet of Yamamoto’s tongue against his lips and the whining satisfaction he can feel spilling up Yamamoto’s throat and out into his own mouth, and he’s not even aware he’s moving until his hands hit resistance, his fingers curling into a fist of familiar-patterned shirt and sliding up against the bare skin of the other’s hip without thinking.

“I can’t believe you wore my shirt,” he hisses when Yamamoto falls back, breathing so hard Gokudera is sure someone will hear them and so flushed with heat Gokudera can’t remember why he should care. “Someone’s going to figure it out if you do stupid shit like that, you idiot.”

“You left it in my room,” Yamamoto offers, the words weak protest when they jump high and pleading in his throat as Gokudera drags his fingers down the smooth line of the other’s back. “ _Ah_. And it smelled like you. I wanted to wear something that was yours.”

“You’re a fucking idiot,” Gokudera growls, drags at the edge of the shirt to urge Yamamoto down. The other drops to his knees without hesitation, his mouth catching against the side of Gokudera’s neck as he moves, and then he’s pressing against the other’s stomach, taking a deep inhale against the other boy’s shirt before he slides his fingers up, eases the fabric away so he can kiss Gokudera’s stomach directly. Gokudera tenses, the surge of sensation locking out his knees and arching his back, and then Yamamoto opens his mouth and licks against the top edge of his shorts instead and he has to kneel down or fall over. The motion loses him the damp of Yamamoto’s mouth at his stomach, but it gains him the heat-glazed look in the other’s eyes, Yamamoto’s eyelashes fluttering into submission to Gokudera’s will well before Gokudera has leaned in to press them together, to bite heat into the soft shape of Yamamoto’s mouth. Yamamoto leans into the pressure, parts his lips to sigh delight against the other’s, and for a moment Gokudera forgets where they are, forgets how little time they have, is too caught in the soft of Yamamoto’s hair against his fingers and the overheated give of Yamamoto’s lips under his to think of anything else.

It’s Yamamoto who brings him back to the present, who ducks his head to pant, “How long do we have?” when Gokudera pulls away to drag Yamamoto’s --  _his_  -- shirt down off the other’s shoulder to make space for his mouth. The reminder surges through him, makes his hold more desperate than he intends, so when he bites it’s with enough force to arch Yamamoto’s back and pull a groan of heated almost-pain up his throat before Gokudera can remember to let go.

“Shit,” Gokudera hisses as he pulls back, looking back down the gap between the stalls to see if anyone noticed. But the sound that seemed so loud to him was less audible to everyone else, or they just ignored the implication of it as impossible; the passers-by are still moving, no one glancing into the shadows long enough to make out the shapes of the two boys kneeling together. “Not long. How long has it  _been_?”

“A couple minutes,” Yamamoto gasps, sounding so wrecked Gokudera doubts his ability to adequately guess at time. “Do we have long enough?”

Reason says no. They need to get back before Tsuna starts to wonder where they have gone, before they get caught in a more compromising position than they are already in. This can wait, until the end of the night or the end of the week, it’s hardly like this is the last chance Gokudera will have to be alone with Yamamoto. But his hands are shaking against Yamamoto’s hair, Yamamoto’s eyes are glazed and impossibly dark with the same desire turning his mouth soft and unresisting, and Gokudera has been resisting the line of Yamamoto’s neck and the shift of his shoulders all evening, his self-control worn thin and frayed by overuse.

So “Long enough,” he says, growling it into the superheated gap between them. Yamamoto’s eyelashes flutter his anticipation, his throat working on another groan of appreciation, and Gokudera would lean in to lick the vibration off his trembling throat except that he needs his focus, is too busy fumbling the buckle of Yamamoto’s belt open as fast as he can. Yamamoto is trying to help, his fingers more a deterrent than otherwise until Gokudera hisses protest and gets the belt unfastened, dragging the whole thing loose just for good measure. At least the shorts are easy after that, nothing but a drawstring between his hands and Yamamoto’s skin, and Yamamoto is gasping for air, reaching back to brace himself against the ground with one hand while his other curls over the top edge of Gokudera’s own shorts.

“Shut up,” Gokudera hisses. His hands are shaking; even the relatively simple motion of dragging Yamamoto’s clothes away from his hips is hard with how much his fingers are trembling. He shifts in closer, fits his knees in against Yamamoto’s, and when he leans in Yamamoto makes a weird choking sound, like he’s trying to groan and remembering at the last second to attempt silence.

There’s no way this is going to work. Yamamoto will never be able to stay quiet, even in the event he miraculously proves able to open the front of Gokudera’s shorts. But he’s radiant under Gokudera’s fingers, the shape of him hot to the touch as proof of his arousal even if Gokudera couldn’t hear the whine of the other boy’s inhales or see the flushed color of his cock against the pulled-aside clothing.

“Fuck,” he growls, as softly as he can manage. “Do I have to do everything myself?” and he leans in, tips his weight in against the support of Yamamoto’s shoulders so he can crush his mouth to the other’s and swallow back the moans in his throat. He can feel them purring over his tongue, secondhand pleasure to strike his blood alight as he lets Yamamoto go in favor of managing his own clothes. He proves far more dexterous than Yamamoto, his fingers working with the careless ease of experience on his own fly, and then he’s got the fabric open, is sliding himself free and arching in closer until his knees are tangled with Yamamoto’s and he can press himself against the heat of the other’s half-bared stomach.

Yamamoto makes a desperate sound, a choke and a whimper at once, and his hands are back, now, dragging friction up against Gokudera’s length until Gokudera is nearly the one to pull away and gasp at the heat under his skin. He doesn’t bother pausing to push Yamamoto’s hands away; it’s easier to show than it would be to tell, anyway, easier to rock his hips forward and fit his cock in against Yamamoto’s while he reaches out to pull them together in the grip of his hand. This Yamamoto is quick to catch; Gokudera has barely shifted his weight before the aimless hands are going certain, before there are hot fingers pulling his length in close against the resistance of the other boy’s cock. Yamamoto is breathing hard through his nose, the pace promising far too much noise if Gokudera draws back, so he doesn’t; he arches in closer instead, presses his body flush with Yamamoto’s as their fingers fit into alignment with each other and they start to stutter themselves into a rhythm.

It’s hard to think straight. Gokudera can’t keep his eyes open, has given up any attempt at watching for suspicious onlookers in favor of granting his full attention to his other senses. He’s going lightheaded with heat and the desperation of his breathing, can feel sound dragging in his throat until he’s glad for the resistance of Yamamoto’s lips to catch the noise before it can break free into the air, and everything is going hot, Yamamoto’s fingers slipping up over him and his own palm going slick as it catches pre-come off the pressed-together shape of them. Gokudera wishes they were at home, wishes he could have Yamamoto bare of all his borrowed clothes so he could lick the salt straight off his skin, could listen to the anxious whine in his moans instead of trying to muffle the noise with his lips. But this is satisfying too, hours of tight-winding ache careening towards pleasure with more speed than Gokudera would have imagined. Yamamoto is starting to tremble against him, the other’s hand bracing at his hip flexing tight like he’s trying to hold himself still, and then everything in him gives way all at once, his shoulders collapsing in towards Gokudera like he’s melting as he jerks up into their hands and spills come across Gokudera’s fingers. There’s a sound there, too, a groan half-lost to Gokudera’s lips, but Gokudera can’t pause for that; he’s too close, too thrummingly near the edge. His strokes are going slick with the other boy’s come, his lips humming with the broken whimpers of satisfaction Yamamoto is making, and he’s pressing in closer, his entire body winding impossibly tight as he crushes himself in against Yamamoto and heat rushes out into his limbs. He can’t see, can’t think, isn’t even sure he’s still got his lips pressed to Yamamoto’s; there’s just heat, whiting out his thoughts and spilling over his fingers and against the edge of Yamamoto’s borrowed shirt, sweeping away the ache of unfulfilled desire into satisfaction as it rushes through him.

It takes Gokudera a minute to recollect himself, even with the pressing need to get back to what they were supposed to be doing before the last shreds of plausibility to their excuses vanishes. When he does let his hold go and rocks back on his heels, sucking at air like he’s just come up from drowning, Yamamoto is fishing through his pockets, rummaging through whatever is in them until he comes up with a napkin from the festival stand to offer to Gokudera. Gokudera takes it without thanks, too caught in the rush to get his fingers clean and his clothes back in place to bother with niceties right now. By the time he looks back up Yamamoto’s shorts are back around his hips, if still untied, his fingers more or less clean with a second napkin he came up with out of the recesses of his pockets, and he’s given all his attention over to watching Gokudera’s face, his eyes gone soft and meltingly warm as the smile at his lips.

“What are you looking at,” Gokudera starts to snap. Then there’s a shout from up the hill, a yell too familiar to be ignored, and they both look up as one in the direction of Tsuna’s voice.

“ _Shit_ ” Gokudera spits. Yamamoto is already on his feet, stumbling upright while Gokudera tries to get his balance back under him. He hesitates, looks back at Gokudera, and it’s only when the other snaps, “ _Go_ , go, I’ll catch you up,” that he starts to run in the direction of the hill. Gokudera is nearly on his feet anyway, stumbling forward with his balance still a little clumsy from shivering pleasure, and it’s only as he’s starting to move that he sees Yamamoto’s belt, forgotten in the hazy process of putting clothes back on.

“Oh,” he blurts, and “ _Fuck_ ” because Yamamoto is out of range, now, there’s no time to call him back. He lunges forward himself, grabs at the forgotten belt as he goes, and buckles it into place around his own waist as he jogs after the other boy.

He’s pretty sure Yamamoto goes slower than he could to give Gokudera a chance to catch up, delaying his own arrival for the sake of them appearing together. Gokudera knows he ought to be irritated about this, ought to snap a lecture about responsibility and priorities at Yamamoto when they’re next alone. But every time he looks sideways Yamamoto is watching him, that melted-over gold turning his eyes gentle with affection, and Gokudera knows perfectly well that lectures will be the last thing he’s thinking about when they’re next alone.

As far as he’s concerned, that can’t come soon enough.


End file.
